Every week we get a delivery from Boston Organics, which delivers a big box of organic fruits and veggies to our door. Now, I've never doubted the organic creds of the company, but a big fat green preying mantis/grasshopper/green thingy that appeared with our veggies definitely speak to the pesticide-free nature of our produce (and made me reconsider my avoidance of all things Monsanto).

Now, I understand it's important not to telegraph our fears and dislikes to our children. I can look any spider in the eye. I can check under dark beds and peer into dark closets without nary a shudder. I can show my kids the baby mice at our local Audubon without throwing up.

But this was a bug I could not face. It's not that the bug was so bad; it's that it was sitting in the kitchen. Pie is screaming. Doodles refuses to go near it. I'm frozen.

"I'll just throw a bowl over it and then we can figure it out," I say.

"Okay," says Doodles.

"Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!" says Pie.

I take a bowl. I approach the bug. I back up from the bug. I approach the bug again. I back up from the bug. I approach the bug again. No can do. What if it jumps away when I put the bowl down?

"You do it!" I say to Doodles.

"No way!" he says and he escapes to the family room to play his Didj.

I call Adam. He's not in. I text him: BUG! Bug emergency! We're trapped in the kitchen!

I call my neighbor Beetle on her cell phone, because I know she's due home from the library any minute. But it turns out her daughter's class there goes longer than she thought, but she'll be by when they're done.

In desperation, I even call my sister. In New York. She was always so good about letting herself into my NYC apartment, while I hid out in the loft bed, to retrieve the dead mice on my floor that my cat would try to turn into lunch. Tweedle Twirp, unfortunately, is unavailable. Or at least screening my calls. One can never be sure.

I put Pie on the counter, because she's too scared to be on the floor, and we watch the bug to make sure it doesn't hop away anywhere.

Finally Adam calls. "Are you kidding me?" he asks.

"It's a big bug. Don't you have a meeting?" I ask.

"It's at five." It was 4:10 at the time.

"Great. You have time to come home, get rid of the bug, and then get back to your meeting."

You'll be shocked by this, but he declines.

"Just smash it with a broom!" he says.

"That will kill it!"

"You want to rescue it??" he asks.

"I don't want to kill it!"

"Here's what you do," he offers as his last suggestion. "Grab a sheet of newspaper. Throw it over the bug. And then have the kids jump on it. Make it a game and see who can stomp on it first."

Yeah, that was helpful.

Luckily, it was only minutes later that Beetle and Tab show up. Of course they ring the front door bell. And we can't get to the front door. Because, you know, there's a bug there.

We open the kitchen door and yell to them to come around.

All I can say is thank goodness for Beetle. She took that bug and scooped it up and took it outside. The bug was rescued. And then it promptly died. Seriously. Right outside. It keeled over. Dead.

You just can't win. And now, I'm going to eat some pesticide-free apples. And try to ignore the fact that my daughter will forever be freaked out by preying mantises/grasshoppers/green thingies. Because of me. Because, you know, you just can't win.

Labels: me, neighbors, pie

So I had jury duty. My civic duty. (Duty! I said, "Doodie! Ha ha ha ha ha!") I received the notice and thought indignantly, "They can't call me! I already served!" And then I checked my files and noticed that I had served 3 years and 10 days ago. You can be called every 3 years. They so have my number.

It was fine. The court is conveniently located, although I found it disconcerting when I walked in and the security guards let me in with a "She's not a criminal" and a "Remember: Guilty, guilty, guilty!" Only jury members are allowed in the courthouse before 8:30 a.m., so the folks who were waiting to go in were clearly there for some sort of trial. Something just seemed wrong about the security guard's comments.

Anyway, I entered a small room of people. I had lucky number 11. I sat. And sat. And sat. Did a crossword puzzle. Read a book I'm really enjoying. Then we watched a video on the jury system. Now, I know that it's horrible to pick on people with any kind of disability, but really: Reshoot that damn video. To have the superior court judge open up the video on how to perform at jury duty was just torture in a snickering kind of way. The woman has a lisp that makes her sound incwedibwy wike Baba Wawa. And, remarkably, I'm the only one with a 12 year old's sense of humor and the only one who sat smirking in the corner.

Then it was time to impanel the jury. We had to answer "Present" when our name was called. One guy didn't say present. He was excused from jury. Eight folks sat on the jury (after evidence had been presented, lots who have been drawn to see which two of the eight would be alternates). Guy who didn't say "Present" was of course excused. Jurors 4 and 6 were no shows. So guess who got lucky seat number 8?

I actually thought it would be fun, and I didn't mind. I had childcare arranged for the afternoon. I was a little worried when they said there was a possibility the trial could go into the next day, as I'm scheduled to carve pumpkins in Doodles's classroom and then take the kids to Adam's office Halloween party, but I certainly could have managed.

So it was going to be an interesting experience. Except. Except. Except it wasn't. The assistant D.A. seemed like a nice enough guy, but he was clearly a total neophyte. He'd barely breathe before the defense attorney said, "Objection!" and the judge said, "Sustained." That poor defense attorney never got her tushie in the seat, she was up so much objecting. The assistant D.A. would lose his place or his train of thought. I felt like I was sitting in an SNL satire of Boston. The accents! The detective showed up in--no joke--a trench coat. The police officer was clearly nervous. And the defendant was a Boston stereotype if ever one existed. And before the trial even got good--before we found out who "Bruno" was; yes! there was a "Bruno!"--the trial ended on some procedural point, of which we could not be informed. Blah.

But now I'm in the clear for the next three years. And I've done my civic duty. Doodie. Heh heh. Still makes me laugh.

Labels: me

Adam's out of town, off on the Left Coast, so here I sit with my wine, my Project Runaway, and my slow-ass laptop. ("Where's your laptop?" I asked him on the phone. "My work laptop?" "No, your at-home laptop." "Yeah, my at-home work laptop. It's right here. With me. In San Francisco." We don't say, "A-hole" in our house, so I won't say it. But I might think it.)

We've been having a rocky few weeks here. Pie has been struck with terrible separation anxiety. It came out of nowhere and has hit with a vengeance. "Mommy, don't go running! Mommy, don't go to your meeting! Mommy, I don't care what you're doing; let me in that bathroom with you right now!" Taking her to school is downright painful. Doodles always started his school years with tears, but his response was "I don't want to go to school!" In those days, I was still working, so it was easy to say, "Sorry, kiddo, you gotta go. Mommy's on a deadline." But now that I'm not working, it's so hard to resist that little crying face. Although it's different with Pie. She says, "Mommy, I want to go to school; I just want you to stay with me!" The first few days were really tough for her but now it's a few minutes of crying, pleading, and grabbing onto me at the drop-off, but then she has a great day.

Today, though, we had a great start to the day. The kids were agreeable, dressing quickly, eating a nice breakfast, cleaning their rooms. A friend drove Pie to school, and she went willingly (and did have tears, but, bonus!, I wasn't there to see them). Lovely, lovely. I ran errands. Bought more books that no one needs, because I'm a total sucker for books. Got the boy a new lunchbox because at the beginning of the year I told him he couldn't have a new lunchbox or backpack because the ones from last year were still in good shape and we reuse, reuse, reuse! And then I smelled last year's lunchbox. Hence the new one he got today. Went to Sephora where they clearly saw "Easy Mark," which was apparently tattooed on my forehead (note to self: not a good idea to walk into Sephora and say, "Um, I know nothing about skin care or makeup. Can you make the spots on my face go away?")

After school, Pie had a playdate with a friend (actually a classmate of Doodles's with whom she gets along really well; my precocious preschool monkey hanging out with the first grade girls). To keep Doodles from interfering, I invited Tab over to play with him.

Tab and Doodles wanted to do some experiments. I was not up for experiments. I let them fill up a bowl of water. They put it on the kitchen counter and I had orders not to touch it. In a few minutes, they came back.

"Look!" Doodles said. "There's a bubble in it now!"

"Wow!" said Tab. "You know what that means?"

"It means that Camelbocher is coming!"

Yes, Camelbocher. At least that's what I heard. I have no idea what that means. I went about my own business. Pie and her friend ventured downstairs to join ranks with Doodles and Tab. Periodically they'd check the water, make exclamations, and then run back to the front porch.

So I decided to have some fun. While they were out on the front porch, I pulled out my food coloring. And I dropped in a bit of green. Back they came.

"It's green!!!" Doodles shouts.

"It's green?" Tab comes running in. "Do you know what that means?"

"It means Camelbocher is approaching with his armies!" By now Doodles is armed with his sword. "We need to wait!"

"Okay, but if it turns black, it means Voldemort is coming!" Tab says. At least that name I recognize.

And that's it! No, "How did that water turn green?" No, "Okay, that's weird." No, "Mom, what did you do?"

They checked the water a few more times. Still green. So the next they go out, I swap the green water for yellow.

Pie and her friend come in. "How did the water get to be yellow?" Pie asks. I shrug.

Doodle comes back. "It's yellow! It's yellow!"

Tab yells, "Voldemort is coming!"

"No!" Doodles yells, "It's Camelboch and his armies. They're coming from Florence Street!"

I make the water black next.

Meanwhile, Pie is starting to truly become scared. So I clue her in. "Look, Pie!" I swap the black water for purple water. "See?" She sees. She laughs. And then she is scared again. "What are you scared of?"

"Camelbocher's army is coming!"

"No, it's not!"

"It's true! The water turned purple so that's what it means!"

Finally after about two hours, Tab finally says, "How did that water change colors?"

Doodles starts with his theories. "There must be chemicals in the air and the water is reacting to them and it changes the color of the water."

"Maybe," Tab responds, "our magic spell really worked and it changed the color."

I'm having a hard time not laughing.

"I think there are chemicals in the bowl," Doodles says, "and that makes the color change."

By now I am laughing. Tab sees me. "Maybe your mom did something to the water?" she says suspiciously.

I give her a little nod.

Doodles says, "I think there are things in the bowl that react to the water."

I pat him on the arm and point to Tab. "What?" he says. I continue to point. "So let me tell you my theory! Chemicals around us are falling into the water and the stuff in the bowl--"

"What about Tab's theory?"

"But I'm giving my theory!"

"But Tab's theory is right."

"How do you know?" he asks.

I walk over and pick up my bag of food coloring. "Because I changed the color."

"Ohhhhhhh!" he finally says.

That's my boy. Full of theories. No facts necessary to back them up. I see an MBA in this boy's future!

And now? Now I finish my wine. I finish my Project Runway. I use my new bajillion dollar face cream. I curl up with the new book I bought for myself today. And prepare to start all over again tomorrow.

Labels: doodles, me, pie

The end of summer comes later for our family than most--our school system has the arcane rule that school starts the Thursday after Labor Day (and the Monday after Labor Day for kindergartners). So this year, Labor Day was as late as it can possibly be, meaning the first day of school for Doodles was one week ago and Pie didn't start start till this past Monday. (well, really Tuesday--Monday was a split session day). I actually didn't mind having the kids home. Yes, they make me insane. But I can (generally) deal. But I hate our school's system because everyone else is done with school at the year end almost a full month earlier. Our last day of school for the coming year is June 23... if there are no snow days.

At the beginning of the summer, I made a long list with the family of things we were going to do over the summer. I was sad that much of the list didn't get accomplished. I wanted to go to Portland (Maine, that is). Pie wanted to go to an art museum. Doodles wanted to do science experiments. Adam had listed kayaking and napping in the backyard.

But there was a fair amount on the list that, when I think back, we did achieve. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day we:

**went letterboxing twice--Pie really enjoyed it and the kids designed and I made their own stamps. On our second time doing it (during our camping trip--more on that later), Pie was a real trooper, dealing with missing boxes, a mom who got her lost, mosquitoes, and finally finding the box as it was beginning to get dark out.

**visited a butterfly place. True, it wasn't the one Pie originally wanted, but we went to the butterfly garden at the Museum of Science and she was pretty happy about that. We made about three or four trips to the museum this summer.

**attended a science program (Doodles) and gymnastics camp (Pie). Doodles spent a week at Club Invention, one of the coolest camps ever. He got to take apart a machine to make a new one (he created the Stopinator 3000, a device for stopping Pie when she's about to attack him), make up a new superhero, and work with a team to make a land sled. Pie tumbled and trampled and tally-ho'd through two weeks of gymnastics camp.

**saw some tall ships.

**write a novel (me). I'm about 3/4s of the way done. All I need is for school to start to finish.

**turned a boy into a fish (the boy swims! the boy swims!).

**picked raspberries.

**visited Storyland.

**had our annual 4th of July party and rode in the 4th of July bike parade.

**attend a baseball game (the Red Sox for Doodles and Adam; the Pawsocks for the entire family).

**tried out--and loved--camping. We went with Jasmine's family for a single-night camping trip. Headed out to Harold Parker State Forest, which was perfect. Close, had swimming and fishing and hiking in the campground. Nice playground. Yes, a lot of rain, but I was able to completely overdose on roasted marshmallows, so really, it was fine. The only downer was that the boy's fishing was cut short. That and the fact that Pie and I were seriously covered from head to foot with mosquito bites. The two of us scratched for two solid weeks.

**swimming time at the Res and at the pools friends invited us to, ran some races (okay, just me, but I ran about six of them), had invention time with boxes and recycled materials, bike riding time in the street, playdates and games and books and general fun.

So that's it. Time to put summer to a close. The weather has turned distinctly fall like. On a walk this morning, Pie started picking up bright red leaves. I'm preparing for our Rosh Hashanah dinners and we've just received our Sukkot kit to build our very own sukkah for the first time.

Onward to fall. L'shana tova!

Labels: adam, doodles, me, pie

Once upon a time, or so the story goes, because I have a horrific memory and this is my dad's story that I'm relating... Anyway, once upon a time, my mom cooked us all breakfast. According to my father, they were fabulous breakfasts. Some days it was scrambled eggs. Some days it was French toast. But every morning, before school and work, my mother cooked us breakfast. But, my father loves to tell me, I ruined it. Because I was never happy with what was served. If it was French toast, I wanted scrambled eggs. If it was scrambled eggs, I wanted fried eggs. If it was fried eggs, I wanted French toast. So one day, my mother had enough. And she declared, "I'm not cooking breakfast for you people anymore." Which is why, to this day, my father resents me for him losing his breakfasts. And he likes to remind me of this. Frequently.

I will now shift topics, but rest assured, I will tie it all together at the end. I always tie it all together at the end. Don't I?

A few years ago, I wanted to learn how to sew, so my grandmother gave me one of her sewing machines. My grandmother was an incredible seamstress--she sewed her clothes, her curtains, her everything. My parents got married on a week's notice. My grandmother bought a size 12 white cocktail dress from Neiman Marcus and sewed it to size for my size 2 mother in literally days (and as I know the definition of literal, you can know that I mean that). My grandmother dutifully taught my mother how to sew. I have plenty of pictures of me in adorable little dresses that my mother sewed. Granted, she sewed out of necessity--another thing my parents frequently like to remind me, they had little money in those days and sewing my clothes was the only way to keep me clothed. But she did sew some awfully cute things. Fast-forward thirty-some-odd years later, my mother and grandmother still have their sewing mojo and the two of them collaborated on sewing the huppah for my and Adam's wedding.

Now, as expert seamstresses, you'd think some of that might have rubbed off on me. It didn't. In my defense, I'm pretty sure no one ever taught me. It's possible my mother may have offered to teach me to sew, but I have no recollection of it. She taught me to crochet. She offered--on multiple occasions--to teach me to weld, solder, and use a band saw. I declined. But that's a story for my therapist, not for you. Point is, no one ever taught me to sew.

Here I am. A grown woman with a little girl, a not-quite-so-little boy, and a sewing machine. I've got a manual. I've got a box of spare needles, empty bobbins, and... well, stuff. And I have no idea how to use any of it. I've got this fairly sophisticated machine and I can--almost--sew a straight line with it. But I've got this crafty streak that wants to be able to use the machine. I have this not-at-all secret side of me that longs to be Martha Stewart. I'm a stay-at-home mom. I'm working on my novel (yes, yes, I am!). But I have lots of time when children are occupied, but not so occupied that I can do anything that requires total focus (like writing). For instance, when a playdate is over, and I am summoned approximately every 14.7 minutes. A good time for sewing.

A bunch of weeks ago, I went with the kids to Jo-Ann's Fabrics. I was going to sew. With the help of the Internet, damn it, I was going to sew. I let the kids go wild. The boy wanted a cape. The girl wanted headbands. I thought I might, just might, try my hand at a skirt.

And then we saw it. The dress. It was on a mannequin and the girl just swooned over it. "Mommy! I love that dress. That dress is beautiful!" Next to the dress is a free pattern. "Easy" it reads. "Simple" it promises. So I look at the girls face. And I look at the pattern. And I sigh and say okay. The girl and I choose our fabric. We choose our ribbon. And I promise that eventually I will put it all together.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I sew a few capes (complete with the Air Force fabric that I couldn't talk the boy out of). I make a headband that is worn for five seconds before the girl declares she can't stand it. I start working on a few projects for upcoming birthday parties.

The fabric for the dress sits. It's in my office. And every few days, Pie wanders in and says, "When are you going to make my dress? I want my dress. Can you make my dress, pllllleeeeeaaassssse?"

One day this week, Jasmine and Pie are playing. Playdates for Pie of late have been iffy--we're in the midst of a full season of perfect temper tantrum storms these days. They emerge from nowhere, build to awe-inspiring fury, and then spend themselves, leaving only a helpless wrath of destruction. Therefore, a playdate is no longer free and easy time. It's on-call time on a new level. No writing, No reading. Nothing that requires substantial concentration or my leaving the general three-room vicinity.

Hey, how about sewing? I can sew! So, I start sewing. Have I mentioned that I'm not a sewer? So "Easy" and "Simple" are "Laborious" and "Tricky." And I had to stop every few minutes to run into Pie's room to fix a toy, find a purse, or answer a question. Luckily no change in weather patterns, so it was a relatively calm afternoon. And an afternoon later, I'm just about done. Even with a matching headband. Yeah, the seams don't quite line up. Okay, so maybe the double hem wasn't exactly intentional but the only way to keep the bottom from falling down. Maybe, it's a bit big. It'll fit perfectly next summer. Or at least the summer after that. I have the girl put it on so I can mark where the ribbon ties go.

"Where's the ribbon?" she asks.

"Right here," I say, showing her the green ribbon we picked out. Together. The two of us. Me and Pie.

"No!! That's the wrong ribbon! I want flip-flop ribbon! I want ribbon with flip flops on it! Where's the flip-flop ribbon? I don't want green ribbon! That's the wrong ribbon!" And the tears ensue....

All right. Thirty-three years later. I admit it. I should have just shut-up and eaten the French toast. Sorry, Mom.

Labels: me, my family, pie

Oh my gosh, if they had this in a Tanakh version, I'd be all over it! It would be the perfect birthday gift for the hard-to-buy-for suburban haus frau (hint, hint).

Labels: drinking, me

How to begin? It was Hah-vahd weekend for Adam as MBAs crawled out of their holes from all over the world to descend upon Allston for reunion weekend. I tried putting on my nice face, but apparently it didn't work very well, as I did get in a wee bit of trouble: Apparently Twittering through the section event was apparently not the way to make new friends. But since that was what I was up to anyway, here were a few of my observations:

# I'm paying $15 an hour for a kid-free night. That damn well be a midget over there.7:22 PM May 29th from web

# Adam keeps looking at me like I'm supposed to mingle. Sorry, babe. Mingling costs extra.7:36 PM May 29th

# Adam is trying to explain why the lecture "why smart people don't change" was so brilliant. Let's all pat our own backs here. Riiiiight.8:41 PM May 29th

# People are already talking about their second marriages. HBS knows how to breed them. 9:48 PM May 29th

# This thing is supposed to end in 8 minutes and I still haven't gotten my freakin' cake. MBA efficiency, my ass.9:52 PM May 29th

Anyway, it was highly suggested that I have an attitude readjustment for Saturday, and I did my best to comply. In my defense, Friday night's activity was not set up well--too small a space, too short an open bar, too mediocre food, and too many people I didn't remember (wait, does it count as not remembering if you've repressed the memories?). Luckily, I wasn't the only one who behaved badly, but since I'm attempting to be nice here, I'll skate over other peoples' rudeness. I'm nice like that. I will give some folks credit though: After all these years, people finally got my name right. Jenny Brown. Jenny Medros is a figment of MBAs' imaginations (yes, I'm giving them enough credit to assume they have imaginations--I told you, I'm being nice here).

Saturday's day event was fine--the kids' area was okay, although whoever thought that turkey, cheese, lettuce, and raspberry mayo on a sun-dried tomato wrap was a good lunch for kids, obviously never met my kids. The grown-up lunch's mac & cheese and bread was much more kid satisfying. The kids did a fabulous job behaving, even through the section's trip down memory lane (Doodles loved the slide show and now apparently thinks that business school is filled with guys dressed as women). They were amused to be sitting at the same desks that Daddy sat at, and bribing them with gum to keep quiet worked pretty well. The presentation brought up some sore memories (I still can't believe Adam didn't vote for me as a "better half") but also some fun times and surprise, surprise, they even poked fun of me for this wee, little, harmless blog.

The gala on Saturday was actually quite nice. Because of the economy, the event was downsized so instead of a black-tie gala, it was a cocktail-attire gala. I'm still not completely sure what the distinction is there, but apparently to someone, there is one.

Walking in was a bit odd because the halls were lined with security guys. Seriously, we passed four of them before we even entered the event. We couldn't figure out who was coming who warranted this. Turns out... it was us. Signs at the bar read, "No shots, no straight-up drinks, only one drink per guest at a time."

Apparently, at last year's reunion, the MBAs got loaded and there were actual brawls. A beer bottle over a head. A couple battling it out when he thought she was flirting too much. A bit of blow going on in the corner. Way to go class of '03!! I think I might have had more fun had Adam started just a year earlier.

But the food was fabulous, the views were great, and I got to talk to almost everyone I wanted to talk to (Meg, if you read this, I searched for you! I was bummed I never found you). We had friends staying with us and that was fun. Kevin and Shannan were two of my HBS favorites, and Shannan was absolutely my partner in crime at the reunion and we had a--gasp!--good time.

Of course, there were a few revelations this weekend. A marriage ended here. Jobs changed there. And the biggest, most horrifying revelation of all: As I was telling Shannan how I love my new remodel, but I'm starting to take it for granted; as I mentioned that I just don't do crumbs, that's what a house cleaner is for; as I mentioned how nice it is being home with the kids and that I've been managing to have dinner on the table for the whole family at 6:30 every night, it dawned on me.... Of all the CWITs (corporate wives in training) of our HBS years, I am the winner of the Corporate Wife Extraordinaire award. What? Really? Moi?

Dah-ling. It's quite an honor. I'll tell you all about it. Let's chat over martinis and manicures. Your Black Card or mine?

'Til the 10 year in 2014! Ta ta!

Labels: adam, hbs, me

The boy definitely had fun. Maybe too much fun. He's absolutely walking funny and it occurs to us it's been hours since he peed. Oops...

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

In the old days I couldn't make the tea cups at Disney spin fast enough. Now one ride on the Cuckoo Clockenspiel and am ready to puke. Aging at its ugliest.

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

Doodles said on the Twirling Turtles--as we're whipped around at top speed and his friend exclaims, "My stomach is all the way in my chest!"-- "I don't know how Dad can not like this!" Um, I might have an idea.

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

The Italian sausage and ice cream with sausages just after the Twirling Turtles and right before the Teacups may have been a mistake. Just sayin'.

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

Spotty service is foiling my posting plans. Doodles has two friends here, both girls, and they're fighting over who gets to sit next to him. Hope he doesn't get used to it. I took the kids on the Krazy Barn. Now I'm Krazy Nauseous. Ready to watch the freaky cats at the Hannaford Circus. Do you wish you were me?

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

Nothing like mediocre coffee in the morning to pump you up. Yea, Glen Junction breakfast! Or, as Adam says, it would be better called Ultimatum Point because every second sentence uttered is, "If you don't X, then no Storyland!" Children fortified with chocolate chip pancakes. Time to hit the park!

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

So normally I'd post all my brilliant and oh-so witty (let me have my delusions--at least until I get some coffee) comments on Twitter, but apparently I can now text posts to Blogger so I thought I'd give you guys minute by minute (sort of) updates of our exciting adventures in Storyland. Of course, you may not hear anything for a bit because the other family we're with isn't moving very fast. I just have to remind myself, not everyone can be a Brown. Although a girl can dream...

Labels: doodles, me, pie, vacation

I'm doing my best to ignore the shrieks coming from upstairs. The boy has his first sleepover tonight. Tab is here, not sleeping on the Aerobed in Doodles's room. I've gone up six times already and those kids, much as I love them, just aren't the sharpest crayons in the box. I've told them they don't have to go to sleep. They don't even have to try to go to sleep. They just have to whisper. That's it. But I keep hearing thumps and shrieks and squeals and gales of laughter. It's going to be a very long night.

So this blog has become somewhat of an issue. Throughout the week things happen and I'll think, "Oh, I've go to blog that!" But most of what I want to blog is about the stupidity of others. Really. I have such a low tolerance for stupidity. There was a time when I would have written with glee. When we first moved here and Adam entered business school, oh what fun I made and had with this blog! And make fun I did. Often. And it was fun. And I would often get called on it. I made a few enemies with this blog. And I reveled in that. Because what's the worst that could happen? I could cripple Adam's HBS-standing, thereby placing in jeopardy his career possibilities and making him a leper in his colony. No biggie.

But now, now it's different. I can't trash the PTO (which in my day was the PTA), mock moms, or make general scathing comments about my local community. Because I have children. I always knew that children would interfere with my drinking life, my writing life, even my sex life. But who knew they'd interfere with my blog life? Because it's one thing to alienate my husband's community and make a pariah of him, but it's another thing with the children. I don't want them to suffer for my sins. "Oh, you want to have a playdate with Doodles? The one whose mom drinks too many martinis and who called me an anal-retentive Attila the Mom? Sweetie, I have a better idea. Why don't we have Christopher over instead?"

So I swallow so much. I think that's what's making me gain weight. The snarky, biting comments are just festering in the bile of my stomach. But I still think the thoughts. I still daydream of an anonymous blog where I could talk about the cliques and mommy mafias around me. But I refrain.

However, next week, I'll have another outlet. It's Adam's five year HBS reunion. I'll see if the Corporate Wife training turned out any successful Corporate Wives. I'm sharpening my nails as I type....

Dumb question of the night: Adam just came in and asked, "Are they asleep?"

Um, duh. No. And they probably won't be for a few hours. Might be time to go up and flex those claws. Get them ready for next week. Grrrrr!

Labels: doodles, me

For the past few weeks, my life has been all about unpacking and preparing for Passover. Well, the seders have passed. The house is 97% unpacked. And I was looking forward to finally getting my office all in place and getting back to my writing! I'm jonesing for my computer. Eager to get back to my writing. Last week, Pie didn't have school on both Wednesday and Friday for Passover. Doodles was out of school on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday because he was sick. Friday no school for him because it was Good Friday.

So this is my week! Except... Adam just reminded me that tomorrow we have to go to close the loan on our house refinance. So I won't work tomorrow. And he's leaving town tomorrow night for a couple of nights in NYC for work, so there's no back up at night. And normally that's rather fun for me because I can put together a girls' night in, but with the kids being sick, I can't count on them to reliably sleep through the night and I don't want to leave guests for two hours while Pie has night terrors/trouble sleeping. And of course there's no extra night of sushi ordering, because of Passover. Oh, and Wednesday Pie has no school for the last days of Passover. And Friday is a short day--Pie is only in school from 9 till noon, which means I can either get my office going or I can get a smidgen of writing done.

But the week after... Oh, wait. The week after is spring break. Right. Both kids have the entire week off. And Adam's company, for all the things they do right, don't see Patriot's Day as a holiday.

My to-do list is growing: I have birthday gifts that are well over a month old waiting to be mailed. My office supplies are rustling loosely in a box, waiting for a home. I still don't have a desk. I have a Torah portion to read at my bat mitzvah in, oh, about a month, and I haven't even begun to try to decipher the Hebrew never mind the Torah trope. Nothing major, but as a Type-A label-making, superorganized person, the little things not being in their place make me crazy.

Enough whining. Time to go to bed. I'm got a closing to go to tomorrow. At least it's close to a Container Store. Organized drawers, at the very least, here I come!

Labels: house, me, writing

I feel so dirty. I mean downright nasty. My mom had all these extra Delta miles that were about to expire. So she called us up an offered us magazine subscriptions. Adam took one to Barron's. I immediately claimed one to Martha. But then she tried to push more subscriptions on us. "I have to get rid of these!" she said. And that's when I did it. My nasty deed. I told her to get me People.

My first issue just arrived. And, oh, it was good. So very, very good. Just don't tell anyone...

As I hear more and more about the decline of the Boston Globe and it's possible demise, I become increasingly nostalgic for a time I never lived in. How can newspapers be disappearing? How is it the publishing world is in a state of decline?

On one hand, yes, I contribute by reading People magazine, getting my headlines off the NYT app on my iPhone, and watching Real Housewives of New York City. But on the other hand, I still subscribe to the Sunday papers (the Globe and NYT), even if I never get much farther than the Style section and Week in Review (okay, the Style section). And while, yes, I do subscribe to the aforementioned magazine and Real Simple and Running World, I also subscribe to The Sun, Creative Nonfiction, Brain, Child, and One Story. While I do make ample use of my library, I also try to buy books on a semi-regular basis, because I think it's important to support authors you like.

I always wanted to be Dorothy Parker, but without the suicidal tendencies. To have lived in that era, when writers were glorified and the written word meant something. To be a glamorous, witty writer and sit around drinking martinis with other glamorous witty writers, turning out brilliant News About Town pieces or scathingly funny reviews ("She ran the gamut of emotions from A to B").

I use my toys more than most--I update Facebook, I tweet, I'm a compulsive e-mail checker, my iPhone entertains me when I'm waiting for my kids, and while I've slacked on it lately, I've been a blogger since the wee days of blogging--but I really think that the Internet and computers has detracted from the quality of my life. I miss the days of being unconnected. I miss picking up a book because there was nothing on one of the four channels. I miss the feeling of having to hurry to get to a movie because soon it would be gone and that would be it, I'd never get to see it. Once upon a time, I read The New Yorker from front to back. Every week. I'm sad that I don't even subscribe anymore.

But then things change. Things evolve. Newspapers died even then. Remember "Remember me to Herald Square"? The Herald was sucked up by the Times before I was even born. It's not always for the worst. I know I'm not alone in nostalgically longing for a simpler time (and even as my life grows bigger, I become more obsessed with those go the voluntary simplicity route). But things change and it's really not a bad thing.

I think it's time to restart my subscription to The New Yorker. Right after I finish this week's People....

Labels: me, writing

Last weekend, we headed down for NYC for Saturday night to celebrate my parents' 45th wedding anniversary and my dad's 69th birthday. Our trips to New York are so brief these days that I don't get to see old friends or do much of anything that doesn't revolve around the kids. I'm hoping this summer to take the kids for a good week or so and then I'll get to call people and get out a bit more.

This time, though, I kept thinking I'd seen people I knew. For example, on the subway with Pie on the way to hang out with Tweeds in Soho, I could have sworn I saw my former boss from my publishing days. She was sitting on the platform, with her trademark gray streaked hair. I was seconds away from saying something to her when it occurred to me that she looked exactly as she looked... eighteen years ago. If I saw her today, there's no way her gray streaked hair would still be streaked. At this point, it would be entirely gray or solidly not (if she colored it). The woman was in her mid 30s. These days, my former boss would be in her early 50s. I thought I saw a guy I dated briefly in college and two friends from film school. But the people I was seeing were the age they were back then.

I think the issue is, I don't picture myself as 40. I feel like I'm eternally about 26 or 28 (never 27. Don't know why, but 27 never enters my thoughts). Forty just doesn't fit right on me. It's kind of like the house remodel--I told Adam, "The new house feels like the kind of house a grown-up would live in. I'm not old enough for a grown-up house."

Growing up, my parents would always say, "Our house, our rules." When I was 19, I lived in a loft-style apartment in New York near Gramercy Park. My mom came to stay with me. At about 2 a.m., a friend of mine called. My mom was on the couch below and I saw her jump up when the phone rang, with a look on her face like someone was about to get in trouble (no phone calls after 10 p.m. had been the rule). And then suddenly her expression changed as she realized she didn't have a say any more, and I said, "My house, my rules! Calls are welcome at any hour!" I felt like such a grown-up! I definitely felt more grown-up then than I do now. (For the record, nowadays calls are almost never welcome, at any hour, and certainly never after oh, let's say, 7 p.m.)

But grown-up I am. Pie loves to check on my hair roots. "Mommy, pull back your hair! I want to see the white!"

I pulled back my hair, but I had had it colored two weeks ago (yes, I have my hair colored). Pie said, "It's not white!" Then she paused and said, "But it will be!"

Yes. Yes, it will.

Labels: me, New York

My life revolves around routines. It's what keeps me sane and organized. It's what allows me to bake hamantaschen in time to give to Pie's teachers, to bake hallah every Friday, to take classes here and there, to volunteer at the kindergarten and synagogue. It's what keeps me up-to-date on this blog and on my e-mail. It's what allows me to plan trips to Israel (or New York or Miami). It's what keeps this house together. But most importantly in my little world it's what gives me the freedom to be able to write creatively, to work on my novel. Routine gives me my haus frau extraoridinaire status (is mixing German and French cliches the same as mixing my metaphors?).

Can you guess what's sorely lacking in our lives?

We haven't had family dinners, I didn't get to boot camp class, the Purim preparations were nil (at least I did get the boy his Darth Vader costume and I was able to find it used), and I can't get to evening classes because I'm usually asleep these days by about 9:30 because I've spent the days unpacking and running errands at top speed.

We're slowly getting out from under the boxes but we're missing some basic pieces of furniture essential for getting things away (I don't have a desk--my computer is set up on a card table--nor a shelf or file cabinet...; the kids playroom doesn't have a single piece of storage equipment so it's toys, toys, toys everywhere!), so those things are lingering in boxes. We have no shades yet so we spend our evenings dodging the many open windows (thank goodness it's Beetle and her family who lives across the street, and I don't care if they see us all in our PJs). My running has fallen by the wayside--I basically took two weeks off--figured my body could use a break--but man is it hard to get back to that routine! My first run after two weeks and it was like I hadn't run in years. I barely made it four miles and I was sore the next day.

But that's going to change. It's time to reintroduce the routines! The Nana is here to help out--we'll be hanging artwork, figuring out where to put what, meeting with someone to choose some window coverings, and perhaps even squeeze in a trip to Ikea or the Container Store. The weather is improving just enough that I can no longer use it as an excuse not to run (although I can always use daylight savings, as running in the dark at 6:30 is a total downer). And I'm going to get this office set ASAP so starting next week, when the kids are in school, I can get my writing routine back. I promise (well, I strongly intend) not to desert this blog again for such a long time, as it's as hard getting back on the blog as it is to get back into those running shoes.

Starting now, it'll be business as usual again. Now to catch up on that backlog of e-mails....

Labels: house, me, sporty mom

I started to include this in my previous post, but I decided that Bruce deserves a post of his own. I'm sitting here rocking out to one of the idols of my youth as my five-year-younger husband shakes his head because he just doesn't get it. He doesn't get it! How can you not get Bruce? What is to become of this younger generation?

Bruce may not be the stud of my teen years anymore, but he is seriously rocking the Super Bowl out. Give an old guy credit--he's not doing any lip-syncing tonight. My only complaint about tonight's performance is it was way too short.

In 1984, I lied to my parents (just that once, I swear! I would never lie to my parents! Really. That D in chemistry must be a mistake! And of course I didn't miss curfew. Smell? What smell? I don't smell anything sweet!). I told them I was spending the night at Eva's house. Eva told her mom she was spending the night at mine. Instead, we camped out at Vibrations record store at 163rd Street, getting there at about 8 p.m. and tickets for the "Born in the USA" tour were going on sale at in the morning. In those days there were no sophisticated numbering systems--it was first come first serve, so those waiting would write out numbers on scraps of paper and give them to people, so we didn't have to stay in the same spot all night. I was number 79; Eva was 78.

The night was a party scene. Lots of drunk people (and in all seriousness, not us). People dozing on and off. Lots of runs for Burger King. Most of us had our Walkmans and we were trading tapes (yes, tapes). One of the guys in line took a shine to me, and at some point, traded my number 79 for his number 7. I remember his buddies yelling at him, but who was I to argue? I got two tickets, fairly far up in the Orange Bowl; Eva got two pretty far back. I'm pretty sure when my parents asked how I'd gotten the tickets (because I'd obviously done it in person as I didn't have a credit card to use on the phone and it was on the news how fast the concert sold out), I 'fessed up pretty quickly. I believe the consequence of my indiscretion was I had to take my sister to the concert. Eva had to take hers, too. We sat up front. They got the crappy seats. (Sorry, Tweeds, for just ditching you at the concert.)

I had a poster of Bruce over my bed. "Born to Run" was an anthem, something we blasted while driving up Collins Ave or Biscayne Boulevard. One of my high school boyfriends was always befuddled that I couldn't remember the battles of the American Revolution for A.P. American History, but I could sing "Blinded by the Light" forward and backward (still can!).

Of course, I had other phases. I was waaay into Pink Floyd for a while. Rush. The Who (I saw them on their first final tour!). Genesis. The Clash. Toward the end of high school, I definitely segued into New Wave, with Depeche Mode and Yaz topping the list.

Quick digression: Anyone else see that ad for Race to Witch Mountain. I said to Adam, "I'm horrified that they've remade Witch Mountain?" and he said, "What? What's Witch Mountain?" Aaaaaggggggg!!!

Okay, back to the music. Actually, I only have one more thing to say: Bruce. Bruce! Buh-rrrruuuuuucccccceee!

Because tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.

Labels: me, memories

I'd like to start tonight with a scene from Stop N Shop this afternoon. My three-year-old daughter is sitting in the cart. We're shopping.

Pie: Mommy! Can I get more yogurt?
Me: Sure. Would you like grown-up yogurt or kid yogurt?
Pie: Um, grown-up yogurt.
Me: Okay, would you like strawberry or blueberry or peach?
Pie: I want the brown yogurt.
Me [I pick up the chocolate yogurt and check out the 37 grams of sugar]: No, sweetie, not the brown yogurt.
Pie: I WANT THE BROWN YOGURT!
Me [trying to distract]: How about a kid yogurt? I see Dora and Diego over there.
Pie's eyes widen.
Pie: Hannah Montana! I want Hannah Montana yogurt! Please, Mommy, can I have Hannah Montana yogurt?

So, yes, my daughter is the proud owner of six (wait, she ate one already so make that five) Hannah Montana yogurts. I still don't know how she knows Hannah Montana.

All of that, by the way, is completely irrelevant to this evening's post. I had intended to write more about the Miami trip, but as the skies are clouding up and the air has that unmistakable smell of snow storm (what is that smell anyway? How is it you really can smell a storm coming in?), Miami seems years and years ago and I can only vaguely conjure up the peace of daily ice creams, on-call babysitters, sunshine on the boat, and the camaraderie of old friends.

Instead I am faced with a new year, but the same old me. Every year I make resolutions, and last year, I failed miserably on most, but made progress on a few. Not that I'd tell you all the resolutions, but I can name a few...

• More kid time: This one is going fairly well. I try to make time each day with each kid to spend one-on-one with. It's harder with the school schedule--I definitely get more one-on-one time with Pie, but I've been working on it with Doodles, trying to read more with him, have him read to me, work on his writing. But I definitely get more time reading Eloise, playing Candyland Castle, or baking hallah with Pie. I need to make more of an effort on this.
  
• Get to and stay at 133 lbs: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! 'Nuff said.
  
• Go greener: This was my most successful resolution. I kept bags in my car and cut our bag usage down by probably about 75%. I was disappointed that our remodel wouldn't allow for solar panels (we had the house evaluated and were told we don't get enough sun for solar), but I did convert both our house and the apartment to wind energy. Slowly converting our light bulbs over. Buying energy efficient appliances for the "new" house. Trying to teach the kids about conserving ("No, Pie, you don't need a new sheet of paper--just use the back of this!" Which works about as well as you'd think it would). I freecycled an incredibly amount of stuff when we cleaned out the house--I was shocked at some of the stuff people wanted: half used tubes of joint compound, the paint samples we had from when we painted our house years ago, Adam's old economic textbooks, car window tinting, a bag filled with odds and ends of paper. The only thing I couldn't get rid of was a box of Barney VHS tapes.
  
• Close e-mail and the Web more: Um, this was the year of Facebook and Twitter. So obviously, a big fat X here.
  
• Run a four-hour marathon: Hey, I'm happy enough with 4:13:36.

This year, I'm keeping the same resolutions here and adding a few more. Again, many aren't for public consumption, but a few additions this year are:

• Read 26 books this year: I know 52 is the logical number here, but hey, that is so not going to happen.
  
• Take advantage of the teachable moments: Too many times I let the great opportunities with the kids pass by, because we're in the car, I'm cooking dinner, or because I've just been bombarded with questions for the previous twelve hours.
  
• Set a writing schedule: Because I did promise all of you I'd complete the first draft of my novel.

Is that all my resolutions? No. Not even all my public ones. But once again, I can hear the Pie from the other room, so I'm going to tend to my daughter. I'm still adding to the resolutions list, so any that anyone wants to pass on, feel free!

Labels: doodles, me, new year's, pie

The problem with keeping a blog is there's this feeling of obligation to post something significant on the last day of the year. To do some sort of witty, or at the least, poignant, wrap up of the previous year. To ponder on what the coming year will bring.

You know that's not going to happen, right? Even if I wasn't still wrapping presents and getting dressed and trying to wrangle children to get to our New Year's Eve party, I still wouldn't have anything to say. Because 2008, as lovely as it was, was just another year in a long line of years (I hope).

The most and the least I can say is that 2008 was the year of Facebook and Twitter for me. Hockey and kindergarten for Doodles. Ballet and potty training for Pie. And Adam--well, he's still here, so that's something. We had marathons and house tear downs and a week in Vermont. We had trips to New York and lots of martinis. We turned 40 and 36 and 5 and 3. It was a year. Different from the others. But not so much.

And 2009, well, it'll be 2009. I'm looking forward to more marathons and a trip to Israel. Moving back to our house. And who knows what else it'll bring.

Happy New Year everyone. I'll see you in 2009.

Labels: holiday, me

The apartment no longer smells of bologna, because the stink of burnt sugar has overridden it. And I don't mean the yummy smell of caramelized sugar; I mean the stench of sugar that smoked up and snuck into every nook and cranny. That smell of burnt sugar. Note to self: don't leave check Facebook while toffee syrup is cooking.

To continue with New York trip #1: A quick note about Thanksgiving: Everything, and I mean everything, was open, it seemed. Whole Foods? Open. Gristede's? Open. The bagel store? Open. The liquor store? Open. To me, half the fun of Thanksgiving is realizing you've forgotten some important ingredient and having to make some sort of odd substitution in a panic-stricken way. It loses some of the magic when you can pop down to the local market and pick up that bag of cranberries or the bottle of bourbon (neither of which I forgot--my bourbon-spiked sweet potatoes, by the way, were fabulous, if I do say so myself).

On both Friday and Saturday night, Adam and I were able to escape sans kids. One lovely dinner at AOC. Another lovely dinner at Le Zie. A movie. A real movie. With no cartoon characters or people singing in high-pitched voices (Slumdog Millionaire, which was amazing!).

Saturday was even better because while Adam and my father took Doodles to the Museum of Natural History and my mom to Pie to the Central Park Zoo, I had sushi and beer with the Tweedle Twirp. Happiness all around! Of course, Pie being Pie, my mother reported that they took the subway up to the zoo. The zoo is three blocks from the subway stop. But upon exiting the subway, Pie announced, "I can't walk. I'm too tired."

Now, any self-respecting parent--as my mother was at one time--knows that the proper response to this is, "Well, if you're that tired, we'll turn around and go back to the apartment." It is not, as my mother said, "Taxi!" Yes, my diva daughter got her Nana to spring for a taxi to go the entire three blocks from the subway to the zoo. And I wonder why she has such princess tendencies.

The trip was a success and the ride back was almost tolerable, except for Pie shouting for the last hour, "I want to get out of my seat RIGHT NOW!" and Adam's shortcut that took us an extra hour. The highlight was Pie taking her bag of carrots and her water bottle and chucking them across the car. That girl might have a future as a ball player... as long as it doesn't mess up her nails, of course (nails painted by Nana, colors chosen by Pie: black on the left foot, red on the right).

The following weekend I returned to New York with three girlfriends, Beetle; Jasmine's mother who needs a name of her own, but of course, like all princesses, Jasmine doesn't have a living mother (quick--name a Disney princess with a mother!); and a third friend who we met up there, A.

As enjoyable as the first trip was, this was a whole new experience. We weren't sure which subway to take. Doesn't matter! Just hop on! No one needs a snack or a bathroom or is whining, "When will we get there?" We'll figure it out as we go. At every meal--every meal!!!--no one insisted on eating off my plate. No one used an outdoor voice in the restaurant. No one said, "I'm tiiiired. Can we go home yet? How much longer?"

We had sushi at 11 p.m. Music and beer at National Underground. An incredible nine-mile run with Beetle around the tip of Manhattan (we saw Chelsea Piers, Ground Zero, the Statue of Liberty, Battery Park, South Street Seaport--really nice). Breakfast at noon at Markt. A bit of shopping. Some cookies. An amazing Broadway show. And a midnight dinner at Le Zie again for me. Breakfast on Sunday at City Bakery, and back and back again, lickety split. The ride back was fast, despite bad weather. Relaxation. Grown-up time. Fun. And then... home.

And now? Bye bye relaxation. Bye bye grown-up time. Bye bye fun. Now it's back to holiday shopping, baking, gift wrapping, child wrangling, house remodeling, tiny apartments, smelly bedrooms, bathrooms in need of cleaning, laundry machines that are always in use by the neighbors, yadda yadda yadda.

I'm going to make (read: reheat Whole Foods') dinner. I wish you all a happy yadda yadda yadda.

Labels: me, New York, pie

So as a completely biased, totally subjective, blinded-by-love mom, I can state with absolute certainty that my son is the most adorable five year old ever created and my daughter is the most beautiful thing on earth. I'm fine if you disagree with me. In fact, I expect you to.

The thing is, people tend to fawn over Pie a bit. The girl is unquestionably a fashionista and whenever possible, she will dress as if she were going to a black tie event. Today, though, after her ice skating class, we headed to the mall to make a dent in our holiday shopping (and, Peter, if you don't tell me ASAP what you want, you're getting this). We went straight from her ice skating class, so she was donned in her "dancing" outfit--a pink leotard with a flower skirt (over a turtleneck and tights). We could not walk more than 50 yards without an "Oh, isn't she adorable! [Person standing next to her] Have you ever seen someone so darling?" I worry what it's going to do to her, all these folks telling her how pretty she is. I mean, I'm her mom. That's my job. Honestly, I think it was the outfit. But the message is questionable.

But we made it through shopping. We went to the mall because I had bought Doodles a pair of gloves that was size 4-6. Those things won't fit him until he's 12. Seriously. He looks like some (very good looking) robot thing when he has them on. So Pie and I headed to the mall after skating class. I got a holiday gift for my brother- & sister-in-law. I got some lovely Hanukkah bowls for my family. I got Eloise for my kids as we're going to NYC for Thanksgiving and I thought it would get them in a New York holiday kind of mood. A couple of other holiday gifts were taken care of. And the mittens? The mittens that were the sole purpose of my trip to the mall? I remembered those halfway down the Middlesex Turnpike on my home. So, kindergarten, here comes robot-boy!

While I was at the mall with a most agreeable shopper (seriously, that girl loves to shop especially if there are samples. Any kind of samples. Food. Lotion. Lip gloss), I figured it was nigh time I bought myself a lipstick. I own a lip stick. It's very pretty. I got it for my wedding. Six and a half years ago. I figure it's time to update my collection. I've also been meaning to do this crazy thing I've been hearing about: washing my face at night. Yep, I never got into the habit. I stopped by Sephora.

I needed help. Really. So I asked for help. "I need a lipstick. Not expensive." And it was actually helpful because I ended up with a lipstick in--I think--a not hideous color for under $20, which I figured was fine. I mean, according to the New York Times sales of lipstick is an indicator of the economy (which may be a myth, but who cares?). I'm just proving the economy is in the crapper. The woman said to me, "Do you want to try another product?"

"Sure," I said. "I'm game."

She proceeds to pull out some skin stuff. "Are you wearing makeup now?"

"I'm wearing makeup never," I told her.

"Okay," she says and she goes into her spiel about this great new skin product. It's a foundation! It's a concealer! It's a powder!

"It's how much?" I ask.

"$57," she said.

"Yikes!" I replied. "A bit much for me."

"It's really economical," she assured me. "It takes the place of your foundation and your powder and your concealer--"

"Yes, but since I don't use any of those anyway, it's really not saving me any money, is it?"

And I left her speechless. From the look on her champion saleswoman face, I'm guessing that doesn't happen too often. No comeback. She had the good grace to let me go quietly.

The woman in skin care was more my speed. "I don't wash my face. Really. When I do wash it in the shower, I use plain old soap. But I'm forty. And there are wrinkles. I won't spend a lot. Do something for me." She steered me to a (relatively) cheap face wash and loaded me up with samples. "Use one pump twice a day."

"Really?" I said. "Because if I remember to use it once a day, I'll consider myself really well groomed."

So now I have a lipstick. And a face wash. And it's exciting. Which means that the transformation to suburban haus frau is complete. I went shopping. With my beauty pageant daughter. And then I blogged about it. Tomorrow's post will be about how to remove those stubborn coffee and tea stains from your white mugs (sneak preview: baking soda!).

It's a good thing.

Labels: me, pie, self-indulgence, shopping

Jenny...

...is apparently living with Princess Pee Pee and King La La in the Land of Underwear

...doesn't understand why--even after she (okay Adam) repeatedly washes her running clothes--her workout clothes drawer STINKS!

...isn't answering another question (Mommy, why are the lights on? Because it's dark. Oh. But why are those lights on! Because it's dark there, too. But, Mommy, what about-- It's dark everywhere, damn it!)

...is annoyed at Trader Joe's (if you buy a kit that says "Hyacinth Indoor Blooming Kit, Easy to Grow in 3 Simple Steps!" don't expect to go home and plant them with your kids. Because the first "simple step" is "Remove bulb from kit and chill in a dry, dark, 40-45 degree F location for 8 weeks." Note, we are skipping that step and reducing the chill time to one hour, which is how long you're supposed to let the compressed planting mix soak in water. All of which means in about ten weeks, I'll have to buy some stupid plants, replace the bulbs, and tell the kids they're magic flowers that develop fully in one single night.)

...has got to stop thinking that Pie is ready to give up the nighttime Pull-Ups, because that's just invitation to a nighttime soaking.

...is about to harm an inanimate object. {Please refer to the previous status update. Sheets soaked with pee. Jenny puts sheets in a laundry basket, carts them down the two flights of stairs, puts them in the washer, inserts $1.25, washes sheets and mattress cover. In 20 minutes she returns, moves sheets and mattress cover to dryer, inserts $1.25... and nothing. Jenny brings sheets back upstairs and drapes them all over apartment to try and get them to dry decently enough to return to bed by nightfall.)

...isn't answering another question (Please don't touch the sheets when we get home. The dryer broke, so the sheets are drying in the apartment on the chairs. But why are the sheets drying? Because I had to wash them and then the dryer broke. Will the dryer be fixed? Yes, I called the management company; they said they'd fix it. Why did it break? I don't know. But you understand what you're not supposed to do? What? Please don't touch the sheets. Why? Because they're clean and I don't want you getting them dirty and they're hanging up in the apartment. Why? Because the dryer broke? So you won't touch them, right? Touch what? The sheets! Why? Because they're clean and you're not. Why are they clean?...)

...doesn't have a snack for you.

...thinks seven meals a day should be plenty for anyone.

...really, truly, doesn't have a snack for you. Please. Go ahead. Check my purse.

...is going to make you a snack from the year-old crumbs that are trapped beneath your car seat.

...is done. So very, very, very done.

Labels: me

I so clearly remember the absolute horror I felt when my father described to me his childhood. What do you mean you didn't have color TVs? How do you listen to a show on the radio? No tape players? How did your grandmother do the laundry? How much did the movies cost? You couldn't have copies made? No electric typewriters? WHAT was your phone number? How could a phone number have a word in it. How far did you walk to school? In the snow? Uphill?

And now, it's a game I've inadvertently fallen into with my children. Yesterday they went to get their flu shots. Which I still call flu shots. Even though what they got was actually a flu nasal mist.

"It's a new thing, guys! It squirts up your nose. It won't hurt at all!"

"Did you mind getting flu shots when you were a kid?" Doodles asked me.

"Actually, we didn't have flu shots when I was a kid. They weren't invented yet."

"REEEEAAALLLY? So what did you do?"

I shrug. "I guess we got the flu!"

It's funny, we joke about the kids not knowing why we say "dial the phone" when there's clearly no dial. But the kids play these games, where I hear Doodles saying things like, "Check us out at jumpingonthebed.com!" or he'll say to me when I don't know the answer to something, "Can't you look on the computer? Use Google."

I wonder if I'm being naive but it seems like the distance between my father's childhood and mine is shorter than that between my childhood and my children's. (And why my father and not my mother? My mother never told as many stories about her childhood, so I don't have the same frame of reference there.) In other words, life in the 1940s was different from life in the 1970s, but not as much as life in the 1970s is different from life in the 2000s.

In my pre-twelve year old life, we had multiple TVs, but no computer, no cable. Our first computer came in 1980, when we bought a TRS-80 Model III with a cassette drive and what we called "the red button of death" (press it and with no confirmation, everything you worked on disappeared forever). I took BASIC programming my senior year of high school, which put me ages ahead of most of my peers in computer literacy. I didn't get my MTV until high school. I remember begging my parents--pleading--in the late '70s for a princess phone. Remember the smell of dittos in elementary school? Ah, the scent of the mimeograph machine.

My son is conversant on using the iPod. My daughter can pause live TV. Doodles begs for time to play the new game on pbskids.com. The both receive their party invitations on evite. "Let's watch a DVD!" they plead. Pie is capable of displaying all the photos on my iPhone to her friends.

Well, just wait. One of these days they'll ask for the own cell phones. And I'll look at them as if they are crazy and say, "You know, when I was a kid, I had what was called a 'party line,' and I couldn't even call my friends when I wanted and I had to get off the phone when a neighbor wanted to us it." (True story of my brief life in Colorado before returning to my rightly position as a Floridian.) And then when they stare at me in horror, I'll explain how I had to ride my bike to school, two miles, in hurricanes, uphill... in both directions. See my childhood wasn't that different from my father's.

Labels: doodles, me, my family, pie

Yesterday, at the playground, I leaned back on the bench and put my hands behind my head as I gazed around... (You all know this is pure artistic license, as no mother of two ever gets to lean back on a bench and just gaze around. If--if--she gets to sit, she's hunched over, ready to jump up as she shouts, "Pie! Get down from there! You are not big enough for those monkey bars! Doodles! Doodles! What are you doing? You know better! We do not hang upside down from the see saw! Oh shit, where the hell are the Band-Aids?"). Where was I? Oh right, sitting on my literary device, gazing out at an idyllic scene of children happily playing, when I smelled something pretty foul. I turned my head a bit to figure out what it was and then I got it. The smell was me.

I go running three mornings a week. On a fourth morning I do boot camp. I generally cross-train one other day a week (biking, yoga, occasionally even a swim). And that means I shower at a minimum four days a week, but usually five.

Only I sprained a tendon. And I'm off of running for two weeks. Which, inadvertently, has led me to two shower-free weeks.

The thing is, I just don't think about taking showers when I'm not all sweaty and gross. So days and days go by without cleanliness. Until I sniff. And then I go running for the water.

Funny thing, at my kids' annual check-ups yesterday, I asked how often they needed to bathe, because my kids HATE it. With a passion. And the answer was, that kids really only need it when the dirt is absolutely caked on or, really, every three or four weeks. They don't get oily and greasy like grown-ups do.

So there you go. Adam showers to go to work--usually. And the rest of us will be living a life embracing the dirt. You may not want to come by until I start running again. This small apartment can really absorb smells...

Labels: me

Our cable company went digital and we got about a zillion new channels, most of them completely worthless. There has never been so much nothing on TV. But... we've had the return of one channel that I'm in enthralled with and that Adam is completely horrified by. This is saying a lot. That man has watched Bridezilla. He's sat through The L Word. He's even been known to put up with Tori and Dean. But I've found his limits. And it's going to cause problems. Because I can't seem to avert my eyes from...

TBN. I don't know what it is! TBN got me through grad school. I'd procrastinate for hours on end by watching it. Something about Evangelical Christians just sucks me in. The other night there was a show hosted by Kirk Cameron (of my beloved Growing Pains), and he was teaching us how we should be witnessing to complete strangers. He had this great analogy: If you saw an elevator plunging, and you noticed that at the bottom there was a gap, and in that gap children were playing, wouldn't you run and save the kids? You wouldn't stop and say, "Wait! They look like they're having fun. And I don't know them! Who am I to ruin their fun?" No, you'd save those kids! So why would you not save the world? Because you don't know them? Because they're having fun? According to Kirk, friends don't let friends go to hell.

They get me! I'm hooked! I'll witness! I'll send in my five dollars! But then it hits me. Oh right. I'm Jewish. Jesus does nothing for me. Damn! (Which, apparently, I am!)

Anyway, I find it fascinating. And Adam? Not so much. He's trying to figure out how to disable the channel. But there's no way to do that without also disabling NESN. And that's not going to happen. Ah. What can I say? The lord works in mysterious ways.

Labels: adam, me

It's 8:11 a.m. and I've run 8.58 miles (which included 5 x 1200 at an average of 7:45 pace), showered, had breakfast, drank coffee, made my kids' lunches, read e-mail, and am now writing a quick blog. What have you done so far today?

Seriously, though, I'm at the point of my marathon training where I kind of dread the next workout, although when I'm actually doing them, I'm moving pretty much by rote. I was talking about this with my friend A.M. on our Saturday run (14 miles, 9:23 pace), how your legs can be moving but it's as if they're moving on your own--you're completely disconnected from them. I feel that way about my workouts in general. I don't set an alarm anymore; my body just wakes itself around 5 a.m. I roll out of bed without even thinking about it, dress, eat a banana, have some water, and then head out the door. I'm barely aware of what I'm doing. I just go. I only run three days a week, although I cross train the other two. Boot camp one day--that's easy as it's already part of the schedule. I'm having problems coming up with what the other day of cross-training is. I alternate between biking and walking, although I'm hoping to add some yoga in.

I keep a poster in my office from my first marathon that reads, "At 18 miles you wonder why you do this. At 26.2 it all becomes perfectly clear." I feel that way these days. I'm running, I'm running, I'm running, and I think, "Why? How ridiculous is this, a woman in her 40s running and running and running and where does it get me?"

But then I remind myself. I do it to be healthy (although I'm at the other dreaded point in my training where I start adding on weight--always happens). I do it to set a good example for my kids. I do it because I love that feeling of crossing a finish line, of completing a goal. I do it to hang another medal onto my collection. It's just what I do.

So when the next line on my training schedule says 5 miles at an 8:30 pace, that's what I'll be doing. And I'll just keep telling myself, "One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other," until I have another medal to hang.

Labels: me, sporty mom

I'm starting to feel old. On two separate occasions in the past week, I've made references to friends that I felt a need to corroborate because it occurred to me they were young enough to not know what I was talking about. Let me ask you guys:

1) If I said, "You can bring home the bacon. Fry it up in the pan. But don't ever let her forget you're a man," would you know what I was spoofing?

2) If I sent you an e-mail that read, "We'll Do Our BBQing in the Rain," would you know what song I was referring to?

(I won't make you wait for the answers. This is the first one, and this is the second one, although I see that A-ha actually did a pretty cool remake of it, so maybe that will trigger with folks.)

Labels: me

I have this evil cold that was given to me by my dear, darling children. Of course, they get a cold and keep running. I get a cold and I want to bury myself beneath a pile of blankets in my over-A.C.'d house, with a stack of magazines and a big bowl of chicken soup. So, because I don't have an original thought in my head right now, other than, "Nyquil! Now!" here's a little wrap for you of the past couple of weeks.

Our vacation: Did you know we went away? No, you didn't because I oh-so-cleverly scheduled a post for while we were gone, just to keep you entertained (wasn't that nice of me?). We took our third--and final (boo hoo!)--trip to the Wildflower Inn in Lyndonville, Vermont. It was as heavenly as ever and the kids loved going to "camp," Adam and I loved having alone time, and it was nice to escape computers and work and room parent assignments and all that other good stuff. This is only our last year because the program we go to is for babies, toddlers, and preschoolers. And we'll have but one preschooler next year.

The highlight for Pie was definitely her counselors. Oh, she found one who she fell in love with. Pie came back to the room on Tuesday afternoon.


Pie: I asked my counselor to paint my nails.
Me: What did she say?
Pie: She said, no. She said, ask your mommy.
Me: Does your mommy let you paint your nails?
Pie: No.
Me: When does Mommy say you can paint your nails?
Pie: When I'm three.
Me: And how old are you?
Pie: Two.
Me: Right, two. So no painting nails.

Of course, Miss Thang comes back very proudly from dinner, showing off bright purple-y nails.


Pie: Mommy, look!!
Me: What did Mommy say about painting your nails?
Pie: Mommy said no.
Me: And what did you tell your counselors?
Pie, with absolute innocent glee: I told them YES!

How could I get angry with that joy? We had a little to-do today when I went to paint her (toe)nails for the 4th of July. But I'm talking about the relaxation of vacation, so we'll just not go there now. And it was relaxing: swimming, kayaking, massage, dinner sans kids, hiking, hot tub, swimming, batting cages (for Adam and Doodles), goofing off on the tennis court (for me and Pie), drinking, and a general good time was had by all.

Boot camp: Ever done anything like say, oh, skiing, and there's some person who has the top-of-the-line everything--the professional goggles, the killer skiis, the aerodynamic skiing outfit--but is clearly a completely novice who doesn't know he should point his skis down the hill? That was me, today. Boot camp went on a bike ride and I still had all my gear from back when I biked almost seriously. Back when riding was something I spent entire weekend days on; when I rode to work, from work, and then tossed in an extra ride at the end of the day just for good measure; back when I had money to burn and a Bianchi road bike.

I still have all that stuff. But do I have the biking body that I did in 2002, which as far as I can tell, was the last time I was on a bike? Again, let's not go there. A friend was kind enough to do a tune-up for me on my hybrid (no way was I going with the clipless pedals of my road bike), but I showed up in my little biking shorts and my cute purple biking jersey. Thank goodness I left the fingerless gloves and groovy glasses at home. Because, man, are they wrong. You can totally forget how to ride a bike. "Wait, wait!" I kept asking. "I don't remember! The bigger gear for going up the hills? Or down?" It was humiliating. But fun. And who knows? Maybe I'll start biking again. Once I remember definitively what the big gear is for.

Movies: I've been working my way through the suggestions everyone gave me for flicks to watch (still open to more! Always welcome a good movie recommendation). But I want to give a particular shout-out to Lionness, because a movie she suggested, The Bubble, is one of the most thought-provoking movies I've ever seen.

My birthday: Adam outdid himself. I didn't think he could do it, but he did. Got me my own personalized bowling shirt. Had my sister come up to surprise me. Arranged for his brother to babysit. Rented a limo "happy bus." Stocked it with friends and beer and champagne. Took us all to Jamaica Plain for bowling and food and booze and cake at the Milky Way. And you know what? For once, I don't have a single snarky thing to say. It was perfect.

And with that, I'm off to find the Nyquil. Ah, happy Nyquil. How I missed you all those years. Welcome home.

Labels: adam, birthday, me, pie, sporty mom, vacation

Those Peace Lovin' 1960s
June 25, 1968: I was born. Flower and Fifth Hospital in New York City, although my parents at the time were living in West New York, New Jersey.This causes three decades of debate (it wasn't an issue that first decade) of whether my home state is New York or New Jersey.
1969: TV enters my life, in two notable ways:

1. My father props me up to watch on TV the first moon landing/walk. My father says that he wanted me to witness such a monumental moment, but really (he claims), my sister got the better show, because he let her watch Hank Aaron's 733rd home run. "Lots of people will walk on the moon," he told me. "I don't think anyone will break Hank Aaron's record." Dad, meet Barry Bonds.
   
2. My mother discovers the wonderful world of Sesame Street. My father claims this is the root of all my problems. "Your mother heard about this great new show for kids. The problem is, she heard about it after the first day it had aired. You started with the letter B and the number 2, and you never caught up."

Those Wild and Crazy 1970s
1970: Family lore states that I attempted to kill passers-by by tossing blocks off our 22nd floor balcony. My mother ran downstairs, saw some dented cars and a very angry doorman and pedestrians. She acted shocked and indignant that someone could be so irresponsible as to let her child do this and she retreated upstairs. I never saw those blocks again. Also, my best friend was Feefer, I sucked on a LaLa, and apparently, I liked apples and was "scared cows."
1971: We're movin' on up, movin' on up, to the 'burbs: The Brown family migrates to Westchester Country, and all hopes of my having any pretensions of being a city girl are shot. And, oh yeah, my sister, the Tweedle Twirp, is born. This is significant because from here on out, she protected me from the cows.
1972: My family makes the move from Briarcliff Manor, New York, to Miami Lakes, Florida, and thus my identity as a Miami girl begins its formation.
1973: 1973 was the year of the gun. Already told you about it; no need to repeat myself.
1974: From Miami Lakes to South Miami. A play house in the front yard, built by my mother out of--why?--railroad-ties. A front walkway, laid by mother built out of--why?--railroad ties. These railroad ties always turned my feet orange and were a nuisance to walk on barefoot. In the house: Halls with orange and brown stripes painted by my mother. An orange metal fireplace in the living room that us children were not permitted in under punishment of death by my mother. I remember being allowed by my mother to watch TV at dinner for one event and one event only: Richard Nixon's resignation.
1975: I get in trouble for fighting with the boy down the street. My mother tells me that violence is never an option. My father tells me, If someone hits you, you hit him back harder. I decide my father's philosophies are more in tune with my own. I get in trouble a lot this year. But only with my mom.
1976: The whole country is celebrating the bicentennial. I'm mourning the fact that I am the youngest person at Pinecrest Elementary School--possibly even Dade County, possibly even all of South Florida!--to ever get braces. A full headgear. To be worn twenty-four hours a day. Yes, I know my teeth look great now. No, it was not worth it.
1977: I'm looking at my diaries. 1977. None of it's ringing a bell. End of third grade, beginning of 4th grade. Not a memorable year in any way.
1978: Was the headgear not enough? Let's add glasses to the repertoire. Farrah Fawcett-style. Tinted, partially, a gray and blue. My initials are in gold foil on the corner of one of the lenses. This year, I also take my first trip abroad.
1979: How to torment an almost-eleven year old? Uproot her and move her across the country. To a land where there are no Jews. To a land where this strange white stuff falls from the sky and where the snazzy jean jacket her mother bought looks nothing like the space-age parkas everyone else wears. A land so liberal and crunchy that her father's new job, as the president of a company that turns animal poop into gas (hey, thanks Carter years!) is actually considered cool by the kids in her class. Bye Bye, Miami. Hello, Boulder, Colorado.

Like, Gag Me with a Spoon! It's the 1980s!
1980: From my diary, Nov. 11, 1980: "The world is going to shit! The Presidental [sic] Election is today. I want Carter to win. Of course he's losing. Reagan has 252 electroal [sic] votes so far. Carter has 15 & Anderson has 4. Even Anderson would be good. Reagan is against E.R.A. & abortion. This country is falling apart. Between Reagan & the hostages in Iran."
1981: From my diary, a selection of things I received for my 13th birthday: bicycle helmet; 2 cassettes: Pat Benatar's Crimes of Passion, and Styx's Paradise Theater; 2 tube tops, pink and blue & white striped; 2 books: Petals on the Wind and If There Be Thorns; a "gorgeous" card with a unicorn on it. I also recorded a description of myself: "I have a volunteer job at North Boulder Rec Center. I help teach swim classes. It's great! I'm going to try to describe myself: braces, plastic rimmed glasses, a bit of acne, tan on my nose that stops where my glasses start, dark eyebrows, fairly dark brown eyes, dark brown hair that parts on either the middle or side depending on my mood, small (real small) bust approx. 32 inches (really 31 but...), A cup (ugh) so I hardly ever wear a bra, I'm 4 feet 11 3/4 inches. I'm 13 and I still don't have my period!"
1982: And little did I know... the beginning of my running career. I joined the Casey Junior High Track Team. However, I had a dismal coach who did no coaching and who neglected to tell me that when running the mile, I should hold myself back, and not try to sprint the entire way. Despite my $45 Nike shoes (my mother asked my father, "How much did you spend on running shoes?!?"), I consistently came in last place in every track meet.
1983: Deep sigh. Nightmare over. We return to Miami Beach. In my Colorado years, I made exactly one friend (hi, Karin!), learned how to roll a joint, and almost flunked out of Algebra. I pretend the previous four years never happened.
1984: The future is now! But I'm still stuck with an old Atari and we still don't have MTV in the house! I sneak General Hospital after school (no TV allowed) and I spend more time grounded than not. Life pretty much sucks, but in your normal, I'm sixteen-years-old sucks kind of way. On the plus side, I do get a driver's license. But also a serious curfew to go with it.
1985: I GET MY MTV! And use of a car (a a manual Volkswagen Rabbit) to drive to school. I force the Tweedle Twirp into 1) waking me up 2) making my breakfast peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, and 3) having my Diet Coke ready to go. She complies because 1) She cares about getting to school on time, 2) I don't, and 3) see #1. I grudgingly drive her but do insist she move to the backseat when I pick up my boyfriend, Greg.
1986: Who are we? Wild and sick! Senior Senior '86! Whoo hooo! I've got Hi Tide Pride! Go Beach High!
1987: Hook 'em horns! One semester at the University of Texas lets me know that 1) I would never be the president of Chase Manhattan Bank 2) I will never get the bows in my hair to stay that neat and pretty and 3) Texas, well, let's just say, me and Texas, not such a good fit.
1988: Bye-bye bowheads. Hello city that never sleeps. Film school NYU. Much better fit.
1989: My first solo trip--three weeks in Europe. I'm hooked, starting a decade-and-a-half obsession with travel.

Grunge It Up, Girl. It's the 1990s
1990: After working for a glamorous nine months in the world of advertising, I discover I hate advertising. I become an editorial assistant for the glamorous pay of $14,000. I share a one-bedroom apartment (my share is $450) on the fifth-floor of a walkup on 11th, between Avenues B & C, where the front door doesn't lock and the light on the third floor landing is always out, which means stepping over the men sleeping in the hallway. I survive by dating for the free dinners and swapping the free books from my publishing job for the free concerts and movie tickets my friends get from their jobs.
1991: I leave the lucrative publishing job for a stint as an assistant at a talent agency. This job pays the even more astounding $11,000 a year (to be raised to $13,000 at the three-month point). It was not a good fit. I'm not perky. I can't stand Off-Off Broadway theater. My movie tastes ran that year toward Delicatessen, Barton Fink, and Thelma and Louise; the agency cast deodorant commercials and soap operas. I never made it to that raise. I retreat back to publishing.
1992: I test the waters of adulthood. Steady boyfriend. Job that has potential for a career. A decent (well, for New York) apartment. Testing. Testing. Testing...
1993: Nah. Not for me. Which leads to 1993. I remember nothing of 1993. Well, I remember getting the phone number for that door-to-door pot delivery service. But other than that, 1993 is a complete blank.
1994: Time to try a new tack. I pack it all up and head west. Onward to U Dub for grad school. But first, a three-month cross country road trip. My mother is so freaked out about the idea, she leaves me a letter the morning that I am to leave that reads in part: "It's 5 a.m. and I haven't been able to sleep. As usual these days, I've been worrying about you...I keep wondering how I could live with myself in the future if you're dead (a very distinct possibility) from some mishap on this trip, and all I was was be 'supportive.' ... Sylvia Plath aside, I have no romanticized notions of the young, dead writer. I don't thinky our father or I could function after having buried one of our children. ... I want you to live to have the experience of being a parent so you'll know exactly what I mean...." I can report that I survived the trip, with nothing more harmful than one speeding ticket, a new boyfriend, and enough material to get me through two years of a Creative Writing master's degree program.
1995: Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read. Write. Read.
1996: My degree is done. I have two choices: Find a job, marry my boyfriend (different one from 1994), think about procreating. Or, run away. I choose run away. I head for a kibbutz for six weeks to work in the kiwi fields.
1997: Six weeks somehow became six months plus a couple of months trekkin' through Eastern Europe. I return back to Seattle, and begin the glamorous life of freelancing, as a proofreader and copyeditor.
1998: A friend says to me, "Hey, have you heard of that little Internet bookstore? I heard they are hiring copyeditors." I apply. I get a job. My father, the Certified Financial Planner lectures me, "Take this job if you like the job. But don't take it for the stock options. This company is worthless and you'll never make a dime." I bitch and moan and then ask him to tell me what a stock option is.
1999: I cash in my worthless stock options. I take my sister and my best friend on a bike trip from Vienna to Prague. I undergo Lasik. I get a DVD player. I buy a house.

Bring on the Minivan! It's a New Century!
2000: My father says, "The stock is at the highest it'll ever be. Cash it all out now." I ignore him. I lose thousands upon thousands of dollars. My father continues to remind me of this fact even now, eight years later. In other news, there's this guy. He's kind of cute, but rather arrogant and when I asked him out, he simply said, "No." Assohole.
2001: Got engaged to arrogant guy.
2002: Got married to arrogant guy. Let arrogant guy drag me across the country so he can attend the most arrogant school in the country and become arrogant MBA guy. Should I procreate with arrogant soon-to-be MBA guy? No let's not procreate. Instead, let's go to New Orleans and spend the entire time drunk off our asses. Oh, what's that? Too late? The genesis of Brown Brown occurs amid the primordial haze of hurricanes and Cajun martins.
2003: Bye bye martinis, hello breastmilk. Little do I know that I'm about to spend the next five years either pregnant or with a child at my breast. Brown Brown enters the world, and formally becomes known as... Doodles.
2004: I think life is tough with a baby. I think it's impossible to get any writing or work done. I think that I'm exhausted. But it turns out I know nothing. But this is easy compared to...
2005: Welcome to the world, Pie!
2006: I breastfeed. And cosleep. And breastfeed some more. And cosleep. Did I mention the breastfeeding? There was quite a lot of that going on. And a bit more. Yes, I breastfed this year. Boy, did I breastfeed.
2007: For 11/12 of this year, I continue to breastfeed. But then, miraculously, children leave my breast. They sleep for longer stretches of time. They enter school programs and make friends with whom they can be dropped off. Visions of not necessarily my old life, but some sort of life begin to emerge. Which leads me to...
June 25, 2008: I turn forty years old. Happy freakin' birthday to me.

Labels: me, self-indulgence